Part 17: Shoe, Fly. They Both Bother Me

Previously in the Vines Inquiry— In an effort to assert himself as a proud member of the Vines family (as opposed to its ill-favored offshoot), Frank investigated his father’s office. But in his search for a place to belong, he may have accidentally locked himself in a tomb. —- He heard two loud clicks, like plans of wood falling off a truck; one from each side of the room. The doors, thought Frank.

Frank shoved the drawer, forced it, lifted it to try and get it back on the rails, but it wouldn’t budge. He scanned the papers inside. There was nothing but more chicken scratch—a whole drawer of scrap. As he struggled, Frank heard a ticking from inside the digital clock that was growing faster. His first thought, like any child of 90s action movies, was a bomb.

He thought it was best to try and ignore that. tried to ignore that.

Deep breath. Stay calm. Check the doors.

He spoke aloud, tethering himself down from the panic. “I was overreacting last night. I’m overreacting now. It’s an office gag. One of Aunt Toni’s famous Christmas pranks.” The fact that he couldn’t recall any others…well, that might explain why was he so scared.

The ticking hastened.

It was joined by a whirring. Fishing line winding lightning fast til it bounced taut. The ticking didn’t stop. The whine got louder. Stronger. He could hear plucks, a heavy metal violin shredding an angel hair bow. It started alone. 

A pop. Frank heard it right next to his ear. The tiny collapse of a single bubble wrap dome meeting its end. He whipped around as something moved at the corner of his eye. Frank moved for the door Aunt Toni had led him in through. He needed reason. He needed air—

—and to confirm some tomb lock hadn’t fallen into place. He made it two steps before another pop. 

This time it was behind him. A whistle across the room. Dust motes drifted in the air, still visible in the waning December sunlight. Two feathers, grey-white, fell in front of his nose. One with fluffy plumage, the other all spine and tendril. 

A third pop and whistle. Frank turned his neck hard enough to make it sore. 

One feather, his brain shouted! One. Not two. 

Panic. 

This is my house.

It’s not.

I’m making myself at home.

Pop. 

I’m making myself at home.

This cave is taken. 

He ran at the door but it did not move. Frank kicked it, something inside—his heart or his memory—telling him how to. Steady, weight on the back foot, heave the momentum, tighten your core. His heel ached from the impact, like hitting a wall made of stone. He listened and realized the ticking had stopped.

Was it over, then? 

This cave is taken. 

Or ready? 

Another pop, the loudest yet, like it was coming from inside Frank’s ear. He flinched and immediately thought how dumb that was, to die with your eyes closed. When he opened them, it was all the same. The room was stable. All that vibrated new, out of focus, was his arm. It was warm, like he’d crossed to the sunny side of the street. 

Frank looked down and saw bare skin while a wisp of his Christmas sweater laid in a pile beneath him. He crouched down, eyes squinting on a face that he’d never admit looked just like his father’s, and picked up the fabric. It was a perfect circle of material, with the edge beyond clean. No thread fraying at all. He thought it must have all split at once.

No, not split. “Cut.”

This cave is taken. By beasts with sharper teeth than yours.